The Warded Man

by Peter V. Brett

  “I think you have your own worries,” Smitt said.

  “What do you mean?” Elona asked.

  “He means you have a decision to make,” Erny said. “Either you learn to keep your marriage vows, or I have the Tender dissolve it and you join Steave and Gared in their lean-to.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Elona said.

  “I’ve never been more,” Erny replied.

  “The Core with him,” Steave said. “Come with me.”

  Elona looked at him sideways. “To live in a lean-to?” she asked. “Not likely.”

  “Then you’d best head home,” Erny said. “It’s going to take you a while to learn your way around the kitchen.”

  Elona scowled, and Leesha knew her father’s struggle was just beginning, but her mother left as she was told, and that said much for his chances.

  Erny kissed his daughter. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “And I hope one day to make you proud of me, as well.”

  “Oh, Da,” Leesha said, hugging him, “you have.”

  “Then you’ll come home?” he asked hopefully.

  Leesha looked back at Bruna, then back at him, and shook her head.

  Erny nodded, and hugged her again. “I understand.”

  CHAPTER 7

  ROJER

  318 AR

  ROJER FOLLOWED HIS MOTHER as she swept the inn, his little broom swishing side to side in imitation of her broad strokes. She smiled down at him, ruffling his bright red hair, and he beamed back at her. He was three years old.

  “Sweep behind the firebox, Rojer,” she said, and he hurried to comply, slapping the bristles into the crevice between the box and wall, sending wood dust and bits of bark flying. His mother swept the results into a neat pile.

  The door swung open, and Rojer’s father came in, arms full of wood. He trailed bits of bark and dirt as he crossed the room.

  “Jessum!” his mother cried. “I just swept in here!”

  “I help sweep!” Rojer proclaimed loudly.

  “That’s right,” his mother agreed, “and your father’s making a mess.”

  “You want to run out of wood in the night with the duke and his entourage upstairs?” Jessum asked.

  “His Grace won’t be here for a week at least,” his mother replied.

  “Best do the work now while the inn’s quiet, Kally,” Jessum said. “No telling how many courtiers the duke will bring, running us to and fro like little Riverbridge was Angiers itself.”

  “If you want to do something useful,” Kally said, “the wards outside are starting to peel.”

  Jessum nodded. “I saw,” he said. “The wood warped in that last cold snap.”

  “Master Piter was supposed to redraw them a week ago,” Kally said.

  “Spoke to him yesterday,” Jessum said. “He’s putting every one off to work on the bridge, but he says they’ll be ready before the duke comes.”

  “It’s not the duke I’m worried about,” Kally said. “Piter’s only concern may be impressing Rhinebeck in hopes of a royal commission, but I have simpler concerns, like not having my family cored in the night.”

  “All right, all right,” Jessum said, holding up his hands. “I’ll go talk to him again.”

  “You’d think Piter would know better,” Kally went on. “Rhinebeck ent even our duke.”

  “He’s the only one close enough to get help to us if we need it quick,” Jessum said. “Euchor doesn’t care for Riverbridge, long as Messengers get through and taxes come on time.”

  “See the light,” Kally said. “If Rhinebeck’s coming, it’s because he’s sniffing for taxes, too. We’ll be paying from both ends afore Rojer sees another summer.”

  “What would you have us do?” Jessum asked. “Anger the duke a day away for the sake of the one two weeks to the north?”

  “I didn’t say we should spit in his eye,” Kally said. “I just don’t see why impressing him comes before warding our own homes.”

  “I said I’d go,” Jessum said.

  “So go,” Kally said. “It’s past noon already. And take Rojer with you. Maybe that will remind you what’s really important.”

  Jessum swallowed his scowl and squatted before his son. “Want to go see the bridge, Rojer?” he asked.

  “Fishing?” Rojer asked. He loved to fish off the side of the bridge with his father.

  Jessum laughed, sweeping Rojer into his arms. “Not today,” he said. “Your mum wants us to have a word with Piter.”

  He sat Rojer up on his shoulders. “Now hold on tight,” he said, and Rojer held on to his father’s head as he ducked out the door. His cheeks were scratchy with stubble.

  It wasn’t far to the bridge. Riverbridge was small even for a hamlet; just a handful of houses and shops, the barracks for the men-at-arms who collected tolls, and his parents’ inn. Rojer waved to the guards as they passed the tollhouse, and they waved back.

  The bridge spanned the Dividing River at its narrowest point. Built in generations gone, it had two arches, spanning over three hundred feet, and was wide enough for a large cart with a horse to either side. A team of Milnese engineers maintained the ropes and supports daily. The Messenger Road—the only road—stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction.

  Master Piter was at the far end, shouting instructions over the side of the bridge. Rojer followed his gaze, and saw his apprentices hanging from slings as they warded the underside.

  “Piter!” Jessum called when they were halfway across the bridge.

  “Ay, Jessum!” the Warder called. Jessum put Rojer down as he and Piter shook hands.

  “Bridge is looking good,” Jessum noted. Piter had replaced most of his simpler painted wards with intricate etched calligraphy, lacquered and polished.

  Piter smiled. “The duke will fill his breeches when he sees my warding,” he proclaimed.

  Jessum laughed. “Kally’s scouring the inn as we speak,” he said.

  “Make the duke happy and your future’s set,” Piter said. “A word of praise in the right ears, and we could be plying our trades in Angiers and not this backwater.”

  “This ‘backwater’ is my home,” Jessum said, scowling. “My grandda was born in Riverbridge, and if I have my say, my grandkids will be, too.”

  Piter nodded. “No offense meant,” he said. “I just miss Angiers.”

  “So go back,” Jessum said. “The road is open, and a single night out on the road is no great feat for a Warder. You don’t need the duke for that.”

  Piter shook his head. “Angiers is teeming with Warders,” he said. “I would just be another leaf in the forest. But if I could claim the duke’s favor, it would put a line out my door.”

  “Well, it’s my door I’m worried about today,” Jessum said. “The wards’re peeling off, and Kally don’t think they’ll last the night. Can you come take a look?”

  Piter blew out a breath. “I told you yesterday …” he began, but Jessum cut him off.

  “I know what you told me, Piter, but I’m telling you it ent enough,” he said. “I won’t have my boy sleeping behind weak wards so you can make the ones on the bridge a bit artier. Can’t you just patch them for the night?”

  Piter spat. “You can do that yourself, Jessum. Just trace the lines. I’ll give you paint.”

  “Rojer wards better than me, and that’s not at all,” Jessum said. “I’d make a botch of it, and Kally would kill me if the corelings didn’t.”

  Piter scowled. He was about to reply when there was a shout from down the road.

  “Ay, Riverbridge!”

  “Geral!” Jessum called. Rojer looked up in sudden interest, recognizing the Messenger’s bulky frame. His mouth watered at the sight. Geral always had a sweet for him.

  Another man rode next to him, a stranger, but his Jongleur’s motley put the boy at ease. He thought of how the last Jongleur had sung and danced and walked upside down on his hands, and he hopped with excitement. Rojer loved Jongleurs more than anything.


  “Little Rojer, gone and grown another six inches!” Geral cried, pulling up his horse and leaping down to pick Rojer up. He was tall and built like a rain barrel, with a round face and grizzled beard. Rojer had been afraid of him once, with his metal shirt and the demon scar that turned his lower lip into an angry pucker, but no more. He laughed as Geral tickled him.

  “Which pocket?” Geral asked, holding the boy at arms’ length. Rojer pointed immediately. Geral always kept the sweets in the same place.

  The big Messenger laughed, retrieving a Rizonan sugar wrapped in a twist of corn husk. Rojer squealed and plopped down on the grass to unwrap it.

  “What brings you to Riverbridge this time?” Jessum asked the Messenger.

  The Jongleur stepped forward, sweeping his cloak back in a flourish. He was tall, with long hair sun-bleached to gold and a brown beard. His jaw was perfectly squared, and his skin sun-bronzed. Over his motley he wore a fine tabard emblazoned with a cluster of green leaves on a field of brown.

  “Arrick Sweetsong,” he introduced himself, “Master Jongleur and herald to His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third, guardian of the forest fortress, wearer of the wooden crown, and Lord of all Angiers. I come to inspect the town before His Grace’s arrival next week.”

  “The duke’s herald is a Jongleur?” Piter asked Geral, raising an eyebrow.

  “None better for the hamlets,” Geral replied with a wink. “Folks are less likely to string a man up for telling them taxes are raised when he’s juggling for their kids.”

  Arrick scowled at him, but Geral only laughed.

  “Be a good man and fetch the innkeep to come for our horses,” Arrick told Jessum.

  “I’m the innkeep,” Rojer’s father said, holding out his hand. “Jessum Inn. That’s my boy, Rojer.” He nodded at Rojer.

  Arrick ignored the hand and the boy, producing a silver moon as if from thin air and flicking it his way. Jessum caught the coin, looking at it curiously.

  “The horses,” Arrick said pointedly. Jessum frowned, but he pocketed the coin and moved for the animals. Geral took his own reins and waved him away.

  “I still need my wards looked at, Piter,” Jessum said. “You’ll be sorry if I have to send Kally to shriek at you about it.”

  “It looks like the bridge still needs a lot of work before His Grace arrives,” Arrick noted. Piter stood a bit straighter at that and gave Jessum a sour look.

  “Do you wish to sleep behind peeling wards tonight, Master Jongleur?” Jessum asked. Arrick’s bronzed skin paled at that.

  “I’ll take a look at them, if you want,” Geral said. “I can patch them if they’re not too bad, and I’ll fetch Piter myself if they are.” He stomped his spear and gave the Warder a hard stare. Piter’s eyes widened, and he nodded his understanding.

  Geral picked Rojer up and sat him atop his huge destrier. “Hold tight, boy,” he said, “we’re going for a ride!” Rojer laughed and pulled the destrier’s mane as Geral and his father led the horses to the inn. Arrick strode ahead of them like a man followed by servants.

  Kally was waiting at the door. “Geral!” she called. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  “And who is this?” Arrick asked, his hands flicking quickly to smooth his hair and clothes.

  “This is Kally,” Jessum said, adding “my wife” when the twinkle in Arrick’s eye did not diminish.

  Arrick seemed not to hear, striding up to her and throwing his multicolored cloak back as he made a leg.

  “A pleasure, madam,” he said, kissing her hand. “I am Arrick Sweetsong, Master Jongleur and herald to Duke Rhinebeck the Third, guardian of the forest fortress, wearer of the wooden crown, and Lord of all Angiers. His Grace will be pleased to see such beauty when he visits your fine inn.”

  Kally covered her mouth, her pale cheeks coloring to match her red hair. She made a clumsy curtsy in return.

  “You and Geral must be tired,” she said. “Come in and I’ll serve some hot soup while I prepare supper.”

  “We would be delighted, good lady,” Arrick said, bowing again.

  “Geral promised to look over the wards for us before dark, Kal,” Jessum said.

  “What?” Kally asked, pulling her eyes from Arrick’s handsome smile. “Oh, well you two stake the horses and see to that while I show Master Arrick a room and start supper,” she said.

  “A lovely idea,” Arrick said, offering her an arm as they went inside.

  “Keep an eye on Arrick with your wife,” Geral muttered. “They call him ‘Sweetsong’ because his voice will make any woman sweet between the legs, and I’ve never known him to stop at a wedding vow.”

  Jessum scowled. “Rojer,” he said, pulling him off the horse, “run in and stay with Mum.”

  Rojer nodded, hitting the ground running.

  “The last Jongleur ate fire,” Rojer said. “Can you eat fire?”

  “That I can,” Arrick said, “and spit it back out like a flame demon.” Rojer clapped his hands and Arrick turned back to gaze at Kally, who was bending behind the bar to fill him a mug of ale. She had let her hair down.

  Rojer pulled his cloak again. The Jongleur tried to tuck it out of reach, but Rojer just tugged on his pant leg instead.

  “What is it?” Arrick asked, turning back to him with a scowl.

  “Do you sing, too?” Rojer asked. “I like singing.”

  “Perhaps I will sing for you later,” Arrick said, turning away again.

  “Oh give him a little song,” Kally begged, putting a foaming mug on the counter before him. “It would make him so happy.” She smiled, but Arrick’s eyes had already drifted down to the top button of her dress, which had mysteriously come undone while she fetched his mug.

  “Of course,” Arrick said, smiling brightly. “Just a pull of your fine ale to wash the dust from my throat.”

  He drained the mug in one quaff, eyes never leaving her neckline, and reached for a large multicolored bag on the floor. Kally refilled his mug as he produced his lute.

  Arrick’s rich alto voice filled the room, clear and beautiful as he gently strummed the lute. He sang a song of a hamlet woman who missed her one chance to love a man before he left for the Free Cities, and forever regretted it. Kally and Rojer stared at him in wonder, mesmerized by the sound. When he finished, they clapped loudly.

  “More!” Rojer cried.

  “Not now, my boy,” Arrick said, ruffling his hair. “Perhaps after supper. Here,” he said, reaching into the multicolored bag, “why not try making your own music?” He produced a straw fiddle, several strips of polished rosewood in different lengths set into a lacquered wooden frame. A stout cord attached it to the wand, a six-inch stick with a lathed wooden ball at the end.

  “Take this and go play a bit while I speak with your lovely mother,” he said.

  Rojer squealed in delight, taking the toy and running off to plop down on the wooden floor, striking the strips in different patterns, delighting in the clear sounds each made.

  Kally laughed at the sight. “He’s going to be a Jongleur one day,” she said.

  “Not a lot of custom?” Arrick asked, sweeping his hand over the empty tables in the common room.

  “Oh, it was crowded enough at lunchtime,” Kally said, “but this time of year, we don’t get many boarders apart from the occasional Messenger.”

  “It must get lonely, tending an empty inn,” Arrick said.

  “Sometimes,” Kally said, “but I’ve Rojer to keep me busy. He’s a handful even when it’s quiet, and a terror during caravan season, when the drivers get drunk and sing till all hours, keeping him up with their racket.”

  “I imagine it must be hard for you to sleep through that, too,” Arrick said.

  “It’s hard for me,” Kally admitted. “But Jessum can sleep through anything.”

  “Is that so?” Arrick asked, sliding his hand over hers. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing, but she didn’t pull away.

  The front door slammed open. “Wards are patched!”
Jessum called. Kally gasped, snatching her hand away from Arrick’s so quickly she spilled his ale across the bar. She grabbed a rag to soak it up.

  “Just a patch job?” she asked doubtfully, her eyes down to hide the flush in her cheeks.

  “Not by a spear’s throw,” Geral said. “Honestly, you’re lucky they lasted as long as they did. I patched the worst of them, and I’ll have a talk with Piter in the morning. I’ll see him replace every ward on this inn before sunset if I have to hold him at spearpoint.”

  “Thank you, Geral,” Kally said, casting Jessum a withering look.

  “I’m still mucking the barn,” Jessum said, “so I staked the horses out in the yard in Geral’s portable circle.”

  “That’s fine,” Kally said. “Wash up, all of you. Supper will be ready soon.”

  “Delicious,” Arrick proclaimed, drinking copious amounts of ale with his supper. Kally had roasted an herb-crusted shank of lamb, serving the finest cut to the duke’s herald.

  “I don’t suppose you have a sister as beautiful as yourself?” Arrick asked between mouthfuls. “His Grace is in the market for a new bride.”

  “I thought the duke already had a wife,” Kally said, blushing as she leaned to fill his mug.

  “He does,” Geral grunted. “His fourth.”

  Arrick snorted. “No more fertile than the others, I’m afraid, if the talk around the palace holds true. Rhinebeck will keep seeking wives until one gives him a son.”

  “You might have the right of that,” Geral admitted.

  “How many times will the Tenders let him stand and promise the Creator ‘forever’?” Jessum asked.

  “As many as he needs,” Arrick assured. “Lord Janson keeps the Holy Men in check.”

  Geral spat. “It’s not right, men of the Creator having to debase themselves for that …”

  Arrick held up a warning finger. “They say even the trees have ears for those who speak out against the first minister.”

  Geral scowled, but he held his tongue.

  “Well, he’s not likely to find a bride in Riverbridge,” Jessum said. “There ent even women enough for those of us here. I had to go all the way to Cricket Run to find Kally.”