“Night, that’s no comfort,” Derek said.
“We’re not meant to be comfortable, so long as night reigns,” Arlen said, looking back out the window. “Is it just rock and wind demons up this high, then?”
“And snow demons,” Derek said. “They rise even higher, where the snow never melts, but they’ll drift down in a winter storm.”
“You’ve seen snow demons?” Arlen asked, gaping at him.
“Oh, sure,” Derek said, but under Arlen’s glare, his ex-pression grew less confident. “Once,” he amended. “I think.”
“You think?” Arlen asked.
“Window was foggy from the heat wards,” Derek admitted.
Arlen raised an eyebrow, but Derek only shrugged. “I’m not looking to spin you some ale story. Maybe I saw one, maybe I didn’t. Don’t matter. I ent gonna stop drawing the wards. Jongleurs say that’s what did us in, the first time. I’ll keep drawing wards even if I never see a coreling again so long as I live. Tell my kids and grandkids to do the same.”
“Honest word,” Arlen agreed. “Will you teach me the snow wards?”
“Ay, I’ve some slate and chalk over there,” Derek said, pointing. He tapped out his pipe as Arlen fetched the items, handing them to Derek and looking on eagerly as he drew.
He was surprised to see that the basic ward of forbidding for snow demons was an alteration of the water demon ward—lines flowing out to make the ward look almost like a snowflake. Derek continued to draw, and Arlen, a skilled Warder, quickly saw how the energy would move through the net. His hand moved of its own accord, inscribing perfect copies and notes in his journal.
Arlen was back in the feathered bed when One Arm tracked him to the station. He heard the demon’s keening clearly, and the thunderous cracks as it tested the wards. The station was well protected, but with the giant rock demon powering the heat and light wards, the room grew continually hotter and brighter until it seemed he was standing in the sun at noon on a cloudless summer day in Soggy Marsh. Arlen lay bathed in sweat, the steam filtering in from the yard making everything damp. He would be sanding rust from his armor for days when he got home.
Finally, when sleep seemed impossible, he got up and began inscribing Derek’s snow wards into his portable circles until morning. Derek was unable to sleep either, and had the cart hitched and ready to go. Arlen was on his way the moment the sun touched the mountainside.
As the keeper had warned, the going was much harder now. The cold of the road was welcome at first after the stifling heat of the station, but it wasn’t long before the chill crept back into his bones, especially with his cloak and underclothes damp. An icy rime soon built up on his breastplate, and try as he might, Arlen could not seem to draw a full breath. Even Dawn Runner wheezed and gasped. They moved at a crawl, and though it had only been a few miles, they came to the next wardpost late in the day. Arlen had no desire to press on further.
The next day was harder still. His lungs had started to grow accustomed to the altitude overnight, but the trail continued to climb.
“There must be a lot of gold up there,” Arlen told Dawn Runner, “to make this trip worth it.” He immediately regretted the statement, not for lack of truth, but because the simple act of speaking aloud burned his lungs.
There was nothing for it but to press on, so Arlen put his head down and ignored the biting wind and drifts of powdery snow that came up to his knees in places. The wagon ruts vanished and the trail became all-but invisible, though markers were hardly needed. There was only one passable direction, bounded by the mountainside and a sheer cliff.
By afternoon, Arlen’s entire body burned for lack of air, and the weight of his armor was unbearable. He would have taken it off, but he feared that if he stopped to do so, he might never get his legs to start walking again.
It was late in the day, with both Arlen and Dawn Runner on their last legs, when the small mining town came into sight. Brayan’s Gold was a mixture of semi-permanent structures, some of wood, and others built from the detritus of the mines, packed dirt and cut or pulverized stone. Most of the structures were poor; having tanned skins for doors and extensions made from tents, but there was a great wooden inn at the town’s center, dominating the plateau.
Some few people moved about, women and children mostly, the men likely at work in the mines. Arlen wet his dry and cracked lips, putting his Messenger horn to them and blowing a long, clear note. The act sent knives of ice down his throat.
“Messenger!” a boy called. A moment later, Arlen was surrounded by children, jumping up and down and asking what he had brought them.
Arlen smiled. He had done the same when he was a boy and the Messenger came to Tibbet’s Brook. He’d come prepared, and tossed sugar candies wrapped in twists of corn husk, small toys, and puzzles to the children. Their joy washed over him like a hot bath. Suddenly, climbing the mountain did not seem such an ordeal, and he found some of his strength returning.
“I want to be a Messenger some day,” a boy declared, and Arlen ruffled his hair, slipping him an extra candy.
“You’re a day early,” someone said, and Arlen turned to see a small man dressed in a fine wool coat, his suede boots and gloves trimmed in white ermine fur. Behind him were two burly guards with small pick mattocks hanging from their belts that looked as much weapon as tool. The man approached with a genial smile, extending his hand.
“Ran into some bandits,” Arlen said, shaking the hand. “Pressed ahead and skipped a wardpost to get some distance.”
“Talor,” the man introduced himself, “Count Brayan’s cousin, and Baron of Brayan’s Gold. What happened to Sandar?”
“Broke his leg,” Arlen said. “I’m Arlen Bales.”
Talor put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder, leaning in close. “I’ll tell you the same three things I tell every Messenger on his first run here. The climb is always hardest the first time, you’ll catch your breath by morning, and it’s easier going down than coming up.” He laughed as if it were some great joke, and slapped the back of Arlen’s armor with a clank.
“Still, I’m surprised they sent a first-timer here alone,” Talor said.
“Had Messenger Curk with me, but he turned tail when the bandits hit,” Arlen said.
Talor’s eyes narrowed. “The shipment is intact?”
Arlen smiled. “Down to the last crate-nail.” He handed over a wax-sealed tube pressed with Count Brayan’s pick and hammer sigil as well as Curk’s and his own seals.
“Ha!” the baron barked, his sudden tension gone. He slapped Arlen hard on the back. “This sounds like a tale for inside where it’s warm!”
Talor raised a hand and his guards took the cart. Arlen walked beside him as he popped the seal on the tube and took out the manifest, his eyes running across the lines listing every item on the cart, down to the last letter and personal package. There was a personal letter from the count included in the tube, but Arlen was not privy to its contents. The baron stuffed the unopened envelope in his jacket pocket.
They came to the stable, where boys were unhitching Dawn Runner as the guards unloaded the cart. Arlen moved to help, but Talor put out a hand to hold him back.
“You just spent a week and more on the road, Messenger. Let the Servants handle the back bending.” He handed the manifest to one of the stable guards and led the way inside.
Like the waystation, the inside of the inn was heat warded and quite warm. At its front was a general store, the only resource in town for the necessities of life. Shelves behind the counter were filled with various tools and implements on sale, and chalked slates listed prices for food, livestock, and specialty items.
The room was crowded with women, many with children at their skirts as they called to the women taking
