The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy. Peter V. Brett
shook his head. ‘I just came to see if Arlen wants to see the Jongleur today.’
Cob could hardly believe his ears. He had never seen Arlen speak to anyone his own age, preferring to spend his time working and reading, or pestering the Messengers and Warders who visited the shop with endless questions. This was a surprise, and one to be encouraged.
‘Arlen!’ he called.
Arlen came out of the shop’s back room, a book in his hand. He practically walked into Jaik before he noticed the boy and pulled up short.
‘Jaik’s come to take you to see the Jongleur,’ Cob advised.
‘I’d like to go,’ Arlen told Jaik apologetically, ‘but I still have to …’
‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ Cob cut him off. ‘Go and have fun.’ He tossed Arlen a small pouch of coins and pushed the two boys out the door.
Soon after, the boys were wandering through the crowded marketplace surrounding the main square of Miln. Arlen spent a silver star to buy meat pies from a vendor, and then, their faces coated with grease, he handed over a few copper lights for a pocketful of sweets from another.
‘I’m going to be a Jongleur one day,’ Jaik said, sucking on a sweet as they made their way to the place where the children gathered.
‘Honest word?’ Arlen asked.
Jaik nodded. ‘Watch this,’ he said, pulling three small wooden balls from his pockets and putting them into the air. Arlen laughed a moment later, when one of the balls struck Jaik’s head, and the others dropped to the ground in the confusion.
‘Still got grease on my fingers,’ Jaik said as they chased after the balls.
‘I guess,’ Arlen agreed. ‘I’m going to register at the Messengers’ guild once my apprenticeship with Cob is over.’
‘I could be your Jongleur!’ Jaik shouted. ‘We could test for the road together!’
Arlen looked at him. ‘Have you ever even seen a demon?’ he asked.
‘What, you don’t think I have the stones for it?’ Jaik asked, shoving him.
‘Or the brains,’ Arlen said, shoving back. A moment later, they were scuffling on the ground. Arlen was still small for his age, and Jaik soon pinned him.
‘Fine, fine!’ Arlen laughed. ‘I’ll let you be my Jongleur!’
‘Your Jongleur?’ Jaik asked, not releasing him. ‘More like you’ll be my Messenger!’
‘Partners?’ Arlen offered. Jaik smiled and offered Arlen a hand up. Soon after, they were sitting on top of stone blocks in the town square, watching the apprentices of the Jongleurs’ guild cartwheel and mum, building excitement for the morning’s lead performer.
Arlen’s jaw dropped when he saw Keerin enter the square. Tall and thin like a redheaded lamppost, the Jongleur was unmistakable. The crowd erupted into a roar.
‘It’s Keerin!’ Jaik said, shaking Arlen’s shoulder in excitement. ‘He’s my favourite!’
‘Really?’ Arlen asked, surprised.
‘What, who do you like?’ Jaik asked. ‘Marley? Koy? They’re not heroes like Keerin!’
‘He didn’t seem very heroic when I met him,’ Arlen said doubtfully.
‘You met Keerin?’ Jaik asked, his eyes widening.
‘He came to Tibbet’s Brook once,’ Arlen said. ‘He and Ragen found me on the road and brought me to Miln.’
‘Keerin rescued you?’
‘Ragen rescued me,’ Arlen corrected. ‘Keerin jumped at every shadow.’
‘The Core he did,’ Jaik said. ‘Do you think he’ll remember you?’ he asked. ‘Can you introduce me after the show?’
‘Maybe,’ Arlen shrugged.
Keerin’s performance started out much as it had in Tibbet’s Brook. He juggled and danced, warming the crowd before telling the tale of the Return to the children and punctuating it with mummery, backflips, and somersaults.
‘Sing the song!’ Jaik cried. Others in the crowd took up the cry, begging Keerin to sing. He seemed not to notice for a time, until the call was thunderous and punctuated by the pounding of feet. Finally, he laughed and bowed, fetching his lute as the crowd burst into applause.
He gestured, and Arlen saw the apprentices fetch hats and move into the crowd for donations. People gave generously, eager to hear Keerin sing. Finally, he began:
The night was dark
The ground was hard
Succour was leagues away
The cold wind stark
Cutting at our hearts
Only wards kept corelings at bay
‘Help me!’ we heard
A voice in need
The cry of a frightened child
‘Run to us!’ I called
‘Our circle’s wide,
The only succour for miles!’
The boy cried out
‘I can’t; I fell!’
His call echoed in the black
Catching his shout
I sought to help
But the Messenger held me back
‘What good to die?’
He asked me, grim
‘For death is all you’ll find
‘No help you’ll provide
’Gainst coreling claws
Just more meat to grind’
I struck him hard
And grabbed his spear
Leaping across the wards
A frantic charge
Strength born of fear
Before the boy be cored
‘Stay brave!’ I cried
Running hard his way
‘Keep your heart strong and true!’
‘If you can’t stride
To where it’s safe
I’ll bring the wards to you!’
I reached him quick
But not enough