The Warded Man (Demon Cycle, #1)(67)

“Don’t you dare turn this back on me!” Elissa hissed. “When you decided not to take Arlen back to Tibbet’s Brook, you took responsibility for him! It’s time to own up to that and stop looking for someone else to care for him.”

Arlen strained to hear, but there was no response from Ragen for some time. He wanted to go down and barge into the conversation. He knew Elissa meant well, but he was growing tired of adults planning out his life for him.

“Fine,” Ragen said at last. “What if I send him to Cob? He won’t encourage the boy to be a Messenger. I’ll put up the full fee, and we can visit the shop regularly to keep an eye on him.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Elissa agreed, the peevishness gone from her voice. “But there’s no reason Arlen can’t stay here, instead of on a hard bench in some cluttered workshop.”

“Apprenticeships aren’t meant to be comfortable,” Ragen said. “He’ll need to be there from dawn till dusk if he’s to master wardcraft, and if he follows through with his plans to be a Messenger, he’ll need all the training he can get.”

“Fine,” Elissa huffed, but her voice softened a moment later. “Now come put a baby in my belly,” she husked.

Arlen hurried back to his room.

As always, Arlen’s eyes opened before dawn, but for a moment he thought he was still asleep, drifting on a cloud. Then he remembered where he was and stretched out, feeling the delicious softness of the feathers stuffed into the mattress and pillow, and the warmth of the thick quilt. The fire in the room’s hearth had burned down to embers.

The temptation to stay abed was strong, but his bladder helped force him from the soft embrace. He slipped to the cold floor and fetched the pots from under the bed, as Margrit had instructed him. He made his water in one, and waste in the other, leaving them by the door to be collected for use in the gardens. The soil in Miln was stony, and its people wasted nothing.

Arlen went to the window. He had stared at it until his eyes drooped the night before, but the glass still fascinated him. It looked like nothing at all, but was hard and unyielding to the touch, like a wardnet. He traced a finger along the glass, making a line in the morning condensation. Remembering the wards from Ragen’s portable circle, he turned the line into one of the symbols. He traced several more, breathing on the glass to clear his work and start anew.

When he finished, he pulled on his clothes and went downstairs, finding Ragen sipping tea by a window, watching the sun rise over the mountains.

“You’re up early,” Ragen noted with a smile. “You’ll be a Messenger yet,” he said, and Arlen swelled with pride.

“Today I’m going to introduce you to a friend of mine,” Ragen said. “A Warder. He taught me when I was your age, and he’s in need of an apprentice.”

“Couldn’t I just apprentice to you?” Arlen asked hopefully. “I’ll work hard.”

Ragen chuckled. “I don’t doubt it,” he said, “but I’m a poor teacher, and spend more time out of town than in. You can learn a lot from Cob. He was a Messenger before I was even born.”

Arlen brightened at this. “When can I meet him?” he asked.

“The sun’s up,” Ragen replied. “Nothing stopping us from going right after breakfast.”

Soon after, Elissa joined them in the dining room. Ragen’s servants set a grand table, with bacon and ham and bread smeared with honey, eggs and potatoes and big baked apples. Arlen wolfed the meal down, eager to be out in the city. When he finished, he sat staring at Ragen as he ate. Ragen ignored him, eating with maddening slowness as Arlen fidgeted.

Finally, the Messenger put down his fork and wiped his mouth. “Oh, very well,” he said, rising. “We can go.” Arlen beamed and jumped from his seat.

“Not so fast,” Elissa called, stopping both men short. Arlen was unprepared for the chord the words struck in him, an echo of his mother, and bit back a rush of emotion.

“You’re not going anywhere until the tailor comes for Arlen’s measurements,” she said.

“What for?” Arlen asked. “Margrit cleaned my clothes and sewed up all the rips.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, love,” Ragen said in Arlen’s defense, “but there’s hardly a rush for new clothes now that the interview with the duke is past.”

“This isn’t open to debate,” Elissa informed them, drawing herself up. “I won’t have a guest in our house walking around looking like a pauper.”

The Messenger looked at the set of his wife’s brow, and sighed. “Let it go, Arlen,” he advised quietly. “We’re not going anywhere until she’s satisfied.”

The tailor arrived soon after, a small man with nimble fingers who inspected every inch of Arlen with his knotted strings, carefully marking the information with chalk on a slate. When he was finished, he had a rather animated conversation with Lady Elissa, bowed, and left.

Elissa glided over to Arlen, bending to face him. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked, straightening his shirt and brushing the hair from his face. “Now you can run along with Ragen to meet Master Cob.” She caressed his cheek, her hand cool and soft, and for a moment he leaned into the familiar touch, but then pulled back sharply, his eyes wide.